


Raise your Glass

by thinlizzy2



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Best Friends, Character-typical slurs, Freedom, Gen, Post-Series, References to past canonical violence, references to past canonical character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-10 14:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12301446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/pseuds/thinlizzy2
Summary: After being granted parole, Pennsatucky struggles to keep both Litchfield and violence in her past where they belong.  A visit to New York and Big Boo reminds her that she doesn't always have to fight that battle alone.





	Raise your Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).



Tiffany Doggett is dressed all wrong. 

It's just like the time she was dating Eddie Price from the vocational school up the hill and he invited her to his auntie's place for dinner. It turned out his uncle had been one of those snake handling preachers, real big on the fire and brimstone and this was before Tiffany had got herself saved. So old Ray Price had glared at Tiffany in her too-tight-top and her so-short-skirt all through the chicken and dumplings and halfway through dessert. He'd kept it up until she'd gone and stormed off and not talked to Eddie again for three days until her gave her a twelve pack of Mountain Dew and promised not to pull any of that shit ever again. Only this is so much worse because the high and mighty Prices had only disapproved of Tiffany and she isn't a wuss; she can handle that. But these folks – Boo's fancy dyke crowd? Tiffany's got a feeling that they 're not just _judging_. They're _laughing_ at her; they're _disrespecting_. 

And Tiffany's a little bit scared of what she might do if they keep it up. 

She remembers laughter that rang in her ears once, until the crack of a bullet made it fall silent. And then she forces herself to think back on a promise that she made to a friend that she'd never go back to the place where they met. Sometimes she needs reminding of that promise, of her intentions to be true to it. That's part of why she's here. 

She makes her way through the crowded room in search of the bar, her muttered _scuse me's_ lost in the strange music and the aggressive amusement of the crowd. It's way too hot in here; she's already sweating like a pig. She's gonna stain the dress and make it impossible to return, meaning she wasted $17.43 for the damn thing in addition to cost of her bus ticket and the fucking $15 cover charge just to get in this place. She'd been so proud of the stupid dress too. Sure, it just came from the Walmart but it had been in New Arrivals and it'd given her a teeny tiny little thrill when she got to use her employee discount card to buy it. She'd felt kind of special, almost like she was in a club. She sneaks a peak at the room full of bulldaggers, all shapes and sizes and colors but all in dark wool suits that look custom-made for their bodies. Many of them have got their arms around the waists of ladies in silk and shimmer with no zippers showing, some of them wearing those fancy shoes with the red on the bottoms. 

Hell, even she almost wants to laugh at her own stupid, in-the-club _self_.

She feels a whole lot better when she finally gets to the bar though. Because Boo is there, looking tough and strong and like she belongs. She's serving up the drinks but she's not working, not really, not like Tiffany knows working. It's like she's getting folks their drinks and taking their money as a kind of favor to them, her eyes sparkling and her smart mouth cracking jokes a mile a minute. She takes tips better than anyone Tiffany's ever seen before. She takes them like they're her due, nodding in acknowledgement, raising her eyebrows and shaking or kissing an outstretched hand or two as she slips the money into her pocket. And the people love her for it and give her more because Boo's got them thinking they're lucky to be allowed to tip her.

Doggett!" Boo cries out with genuine pleasure. "You made it! You really came!" And then Tiffany is all swallowed up in Boo's muscles and sweat and always surprising softness and she can't bring herself to regret the trip no matter how much this place is pissing her off. She'd like to live in that hug for a while, because it feels safe and whole and like a place where she where she might sleep safely for a bit. But Boo is already pulling back and filling up the air with all her chatter. She knows how to use words like no one else and Tiffany admires that a lot of the time. But right now she wishes Boo would slow down a tick because her head is swimming and she can't keep up with what's being said. 

It's something about a wristband for free drinks – didn't Tiffany give her name at the door? She hadn't thought to; it never even occurred to her that there would be a list, let alone that the words _Tiffany Doggett_ might be on it. And she wants to ask if this means she gets her $15 back but she doesn't because there's more than a few people staring at the two of them now and no doubt thinking what a strange pair they make. Wondering what slick, smooth Boo is doing with this sad little country mouse and probably thinking it's some kinda sex thing. So Tiffany doesn't want any of them hearing her talk about money and get the wrong idea. Not that she wants them to think she's better than that; she's never been embarrassed about using what the good Lord gave her to make a little extra when she needed it. But _Boo_ is better than paying for strange, and Tiffany won't be the one to make none of this lot think otherwise.

"What can I get you?", Boo asks, and this is familiar. She's always been generous, at least once you got under her armor. She hadn't been like that old Russian lady who spread her gifts out like a fisher hoping to snare some crawdads, but Tiffany knows that deep-down Boo's always proud to be able to provide for her friends. And at this moment, she needs some providing for. She would love a beer, something cold and soothing to cool her temper while wetting her throat. But Boo's sure to ask what kind and Tiffany doesn't see a single bottle she knows in the huge dark glass fridge behind her friend. She's pretty sure that she'll have the same problem with wine or whatever, so she's about to ask Boo to surprise her when a memory comes back. Chapman and Vause reminiscing about how they met – Chapman had ordered a margarita so she could hang out in some bar and give Vause a chance to keep talking to her. Tiffany's never had a margarita before but if it's a lezzer drink then they must have the stuff to make it here. Plus she thinks it's got fruit in it, so it can't be too weird. 

Boo arches an eyebrow in surprise and Tiffany wants to ask if she's impressed. Maybe she will, later, when no one's around to hear it. The drink Boo puts in front of her is damn pretty: a little pile of ice like a 7-11 lemon slurpee, sparkling with sugar bits all round the top. Tiffany grins and lifts the glass by the stem – a toast to old friends – and then takes a swig. 

She instantly gags and booze sprays from her lips. She can’t help it. All the pretty crystals on the top are salt, not sugar, and it's an unexpected shock. Boo must have made a mistake, except that you don't make mistakes like that at this kind of bar and keep your job; even Tiffany knows that. Sp that means Boo's playing a trick on her, but that's even more impossible. Boo wouldn't do that for no reason, or just to be nasty. Not now. Without thinking about it she horks on the floor - twice, loud and wet - trying to clear her mouth. Her cheeks burn scarlet as she realizes what she's done. 

She can _feel_ the people staring, even without looking up. Their eyes are hot and heavy. 

Then Boo's voice cuts through the crowd's disapproval like a rifle shattering a silent morning. "What? She's not wrong. For what we're charging you all for drinks, you should be getting a hell of a lot better booze than what I'm serving. Hell, twenty bucks for a marg and I use _Lunazul_? I'd spit that on the floor too."

The people relax, exhale. Move on. 

Still, Tiffany can't. She feels like a dog that's got a scent. Derision is in the air, disdain. It hangs in the muggy heat of the place like some germ clouds over a sickly swamp. She's got the stink of it now and she won't feel right until she tracks it down and sees it dead on the ground. But Boo is there, a gentle hand on her arm and a knowing note in her voice. "Don't, okay? Just don't. I should have thought to warn you they're made with salt but they're stupid anyway. They're just passe drinks from the 90's and it's no big deal, I promise. I'll make you something better."

The next drink that appears _is_ better. Creamy. Sweet. But it's not the alcohol that holds her in place and keeps her safe from herself.

"It really is swill." Boo's voice is playful now, confiding, like she's got a rumor to share. Tiffany's always liked her best like this, the friend who sat at the edge of her bed and whispered secrets about how the world works that no one else got to hear. "The owners buy store-brand shit and make me fill up the fancy bottles with it. Sure, no one in here can tell the difference but it's the principle of thing. And yet, somehow _we're_ the criminals? Go figure." And they laugh together and Tiffany feels like herself for the first time since she got to this stupid, sharp-edged city. 

"Y'know what I miss?", she asks, settling back into their old, easy banter like slip-sliding into a cool lake on a hot summer day. "The hooch that French black girl at Litchfield used to make. That's better than any old salt drink anyway. You know the one I mean, who dyked around with the China doll. What was her name again?"

"Washington. Poussey." Boo kisses two of her own fingers and holds them in the air for a second. "She wasn't actually French." She takes a sip of Tiffany's drink and it doesn't occur to her to object. "Yeah, she was something. Tragic, really. She was smart as a whip, and the only person in that shithole who knew how to make drinkable Pruno."

"Excuse me?" A sickly-sweet voice floats in between them like slow-melting syrup in the heat of the bar. Boo's smarmy professional-face slides into place like a mask. But the interrupter's not after a drink and Tiffany's knows it as soon as she sees her. From little girls playing in a junkyard to hardened killers in a prison shower room, everyone looking to do a bit of recreational harm always wears the same damn expression on their faces. It's like a particular kind of thirst. 

"Did you – did you just say that you were in prison?" Tiffany gives her a little nod – no point in denying it now.

" I was. Did my time and now I'm out. Got some kinda problem with that?"

The woman's jaw drops like something out of a cartoon, play-acted shock. She looks around to make sure she's got an audience before she pivots towards Boo. "My goodness, Carrie. What an... interesting element you've introduced to this place. We're so fortunate. Were you a bookie too, dear?" She looks Tiffany up and down and her happiness at her own spite is written clear across her face even before she speaks again. "Or perhaps it was some kind of... benefits fraud?"

There's a roar of blood in her ears like a jet plane flying overhead. Underneath it she could have sworn she heard a dry rattle of long-dead laughter. 

But louder than all of it is Boo's voice. "Nah, Isabelle. I'm small potatoes next to my friend Miss Doggett here, I'm afraid. I took a few bets, got cocky, got caught. But her? She's..." 

She trails off. Both Tiffany and the woman who's apparently called Isabelle wait for her to finish. The pause stretches on. 

Tiffany gets it first. Boo's not going to fill in the blanks, not going to define her for anyone. It's up to Tiffany to do that for herself. 

She shifts forward on her barstool and meets Isabelle's eyes. "I'm... no danger to anyone, according to my parole board. Not anymore, anyway." Tiffany allows herself a small smile and a sip of the actually really delicious drink. "So long as I'm treated with the respect I deserve, of course. If not, all bets are off."

She could swear she hears rattlesnake venom dripping onto baked earth and hissing into steam in the silence that follows. She and Boo both watch as Isabelle shifts from predator to prey. Tiffany recognizes the change straight away; the damn fool looks just like a mountain lion always did in the moment that it first sighted her Uncle Kyle's rifle. She knows Boo won't see it the exact same way, but she trusts her to know it for what it is anyhow. 

"Well... that's... certainly good to know." Isabelle tries for a smile but it's miles away from the ruby-dark smirk she'd been wearing only a few seconds earlier. "Good luck to you, truly." She looks from Tiffany to Boo and back again, searching for a crack to scurry into. Finding none, she falls back on city-bitch manners. "Can I buy you a drink, to celebrate your freedom?"

Tiffany snorts and lifts her glass. "I'm drinking for free. But you can buy a drink for Boo, here. She's been doing thirsty work." The she twists on her stool and looks away. She's pretty sure Isabelle's expression isn't gonna get any better and she'd hate to wreck the moment by getting the giggles. 

She hears Boo remark that she's been hankering for a particular wine that can't be sold by the glass. It's just $100 for the bottle though, and something in her voice makes is perfectly clear that it's really $8.99 tops. But nonetheless there's that sweet crinkling sound that somehow only money makes and the even sweeter sound of her best friend's deep chuckle. Isabelle stalks away and neither of them watch her go.

"You want another? More of the same?" Boo reaches for Tiffany's glass. She hadn't even realized that the drink is almost gone but she shrugs and slides it over to her for a refill. The crystal swooshes all smooth and swift over the dark polished wood so that Tiffany feels like Tom Cruise in that bartending movie he did before he went all loopy with his science church. 

"Sure, why not. They're free right?" And she and Boo laugh louder and longer than the shitty joke deserves. Tiffany has that sense again, the one that's been coming and going in waves ever since she walked out of Litchfield and back into this weird world of salted drinks and smug bitches and overpriced wine.

That weird sense that maybe, just maybe, she's actually gonna survive this. 

An idea occurs to her right before Boo starts to pour. "But give me something else. Something I haven't tried yet. No salt though. Or, I dunno, spider eggs or whatever you all put in your drinks round here." That last bit makes Boo smile again. 

"Yes, ma'am. Got to be careful not to piss you off, right?" 

Tiffany grins in response. ""You know it." It's still hot as fuck in here, but otherwise the place sucks less than she first thought. She tugs the neckline of her dress down an inch or two and hikes up the skirt to feel a bit of air on her thighs. It's way more comfortable that way. She stretches her limbs out and waits for the evening's next little surprise.


End file.
